Back at her flat later that evening, Charley wandered into the kitchen, dumped her bag on the table and opened the fridge. She supposed she ought to eat something. Having spent much of the week at Ricky’s, and anticipating she’d be there for the weekend too, she found her fridge was even more pathetically empty than usual. She leant heavily against the fridge door. This was so not how she’d expected this evening to pan out. In her mind’s eye she’d imagined, or rather fantasised as it turned out, that she and Ricky would be celebrating, going out to dinner together somewhere special. She’d envisaged candles and champagne, attentive waiters, delicious food… and Ricky… the feel of his skin on hers as he reached across the table to take her hand in his, his warm caressing smile and the gaze of his brown eyes, soft with love. She pulled herself up briskly. Now you’re just torturing yourself. Even so, whatever she’d pictured, it wasn’t a lonely, scrappy meal of leftovers in her kitchen with a mug of tea. Actually, not even a cup of tea since she didn’t have any milk.
She knew she ought to go to the supermarket, but she just couldn’t be arsed to drag herself there. Slamming the fridge shut, she picked up bag and her keys, and longing for company and a shoulder to cry on, slunk round to Angie’s.
‘I thought you’d be with Ricky,’ said Angie, as she opened the front door, her brood clustered behind her in her wake as usual.
‘So did I,’ replied Charley, flatly. ‘But he’s going to back to Italy. Permanently.’
Angie’s face fell. ‘Oh Charley!’ She moved forward to embrace her friend, but Charley put her hand out to stop her.
‘Don’t!’ she warned. ‘I will completely fall apart.’
‘I know,’ said Angie gently, encircling her with both arms. Charley promptly fell apart.
‘Why is Charley crying?’ asked Finn loudly.
‘Because she’s sad,’ Angie told him. Then, shooing the kids towards the kitchen, she said, ‘Tell Daddy he’s in charge, I’m with upstairs with Charley,’ and she led the way up to her bedroom where Charley flung herself on the bed and sobbed her heart out.
A few moments later, Will came upstairs with two mugs of tea. Finn slid in cautiously behind his dad. Silently, the little boy sidled up to Charley and pressed his bedraggled and much beloved fluffy dinosaur into her hands. She took it and hugged it to her, finding it improbably comforting.
‘Thank you, Finnie,’ she managed between sobs.
‘Good boy, Finn,’ said his mother, running her hand over her small son’s head lovingly.
Angie didn’t try to persuade Charley to go to Ricky and ask if they could try again. But then, instinctively, Charley had known she wouldn’t. If she’d wanted someone to do that she would have pitched up at Tara’s instead. Where Tara was opinionated and forceful, Angie was pensive and cautious in the advice she gave, more likely to let you draw your own conclusions than impose her judgements on you. Intuitively, Charley had chosen to turn to the friend who was more likely to tell her what she wanted to hear – or rather, who wouldn’t tell her what she didn’t want to hear. When she was all out of tears, thirsty, and in desperate need of another mug of tea, they went back downstairs. Going into the kitchen, she noticed Angie’s artwork on the kitchen table, where she’d evidently abandoned it to look after her mate.
‘I’m sorry, Ange, I’ve distracted you,’ she said, but her friend merely shrugged dismissively. ‘Do you want me to stick around this evening so you can get some done?’ offered Charley.
‘No, don’t be daft. It’s too late to start anything now, anyhow. Lily needs a feed and putting to bed, and then we’re into the full baths, drinks, teeth-cleaning, stories and bedtime palaver, after which we will all collapse with a well-earned glass of wine!’ she promised.
While Angie dealt with baby Lily, Charley foolishly volunteered to supervise Eliot and Finn in the bath. Gleefully, the little horrors ruthlessly exploited her inexperience, staging a full-scale water battle, drenching her and the entire bathroom with their Super Soakers. She fought back heroically with a water-spouting plastic whale, but she was outnumbered and outgunned. No doubt hearing the hysterical pandemonium, their big sister Beth put her head around the bathroom door and, taking in the sodden state of the room pronounced ominously, ‘Uh-oh! You’re going to be in big trouble!’
Charley and the boys exchanged horrified looks.
Will whisked his mischievous sons off to dry them and put them in their PJs while Charley cleared up the bathroom. Then she went into Beth’s room to read her a bedtime story, and the two of them snuggled up under the quilt taking it in turns reading Fantastic Mr Fox.
Eventually, all the kids were settled for the night and Charley went downstairs to join Angie and Will. Understandably finding the prospect of leaving such a lively, full house and going home to a barren, empty flat unbearable, she asked Angie if she could stay the night. She’d never done it before. Angie didn’t even have a spare room.
‘Of course, but you’ll have to kip on the sofa.’
Charley would have slept in Buster’s basket rather than go home.
She couldn’t hide at Angie’s for ever, and in any case, being in the chaotically happy family home wasn’t making it any easier for her, so shortly after breakfast the next morning Charley went back to her place. The oppressive silence of her flat reminded her of the emptiness, physical and emotional, that had consumed her after Josh had died. From now on, every evening and all day Sunday it would be just her, unless she gate-crashed one of her mate’s weekends or went round to Pam’s for Sunday lunch. Telling herself to snap out of it and not to be so bloody maudlin and self-pitying, she went into the living room to put the TV on, just for the company. As she crossed the floor, her foot kicked one of Carlo’s chew toys which she’d obviously missed. She picked it up and gazed at it for a few moments, then sank heavily onto the sofa, hugging it to her. She was even missing the bloody dog. There and then she made a rash decision – one she was going to regret, as it turned out, and quite a bit.
Less than two hours later she’d wilfully let herself fall head over heels for a lovable-looking rogue with a sheepish grin and lopsided ears.
‘Can you give Bubbles his forever home?’ asked the strapline over the dog’s photo on the rescue centre webpage. Yes, I absolutely can, decided Charley pretty much on the spot.
Bubbles is an eighteen-month-old cockerpoo who lives up to his name – he’s loves to play and is a lot of fun. He is good with dogs and children, completely housetrained, is very good on the lead and has excellent recall so he can be exercised off lead. He could live with another dog. He is very affectionate and likes a lot of cuddles and attention.
Frankly, Bubbles, what is there not to love about you? thought Charley, regarding the dog’s cute face adoringly. Well, apart from your name. If she hadn’t already believed in love at first sight, seeing Bubbles’ photo would have convinced her.
Clicking on ‘Next Steps’ she discovered there was an application form to complete, so she made herself a mug of coffee and sat down to fill it in. It was eight pages long and by the time she was halfway through, Charley reckoned it was probably easier to adopt a child than a dog. She clicked away stoically. ‘Yes, I have car and a garden and yes, I own my own home. No, I don’t have a cat and no, I’m not planning on changing my job or moving home any time in the next three months…’ Finally she finished it, submitted the form and an automatic reply told her the rescue centre would be in touch.
Ten days later, after a further phone interrogation, plus sending photographic evidence of her ‘dog-proof’ garden, she finally passed the application process, and was invited to meet Bubbles to see if they were compatible. So she’d begged Pam to look after the shop for a couple of hours and set off to the Four Paws Dog Rescue Centre, taking Angie with her for advice since, apart from Ricky, she was the only person she knew who actually owned a dog. Charley had originally proposed going after school, so that Angie could bring her whole gang. ‘It’ll be fun!’ she’d promised.
Wisely, Angie had vetoed the idea, on the grounds that she didn’t want a second dog and there was only so much pester-power a parent could take. So they’d gone just after lunch, with Lily.
The second the kennel staff opened his crate, Bubbles hurled himself enthusiastically at Charley and since she had crouched down to greet him, he nearly knocked her over. The caramel-coloured fluffball wriggled frantically with desperate affection in Charley’s arms, and let slip a small excited puddle while she cuddled him.
‘What sort of dog is this?’ asked Angie sceptically.
‘I think he’s a cockerpoo, or maybe a labradoodle,’ replied the kennel worker. ‘Or he might be a shnoodle, come to think of it.’
Charley and Angie exchanged amused looks.
‘Are you sure it’s not a cock-a-doodle-poo? Or a labra-doodley-don’t?’ enquired Charley with a straight face. She didn’t dare risk catching Angie’s eye, knowing they’d both lose it completely, and focused her attention on the dog. He gazed back at her with imploring brown eyes and Charley completely melted.
‘Actually, who cares? I absolutely adore him.’
‘And I think it’s reciprocated,’ smiled the woman. ‘Okay, so, as you know, we do ask for a £200 contribution. He’s had his first jab, but he’ll need a booster in a week and then once a year. And you’ll have to worm and de-flea him every two months. Have you got a lead and a basket, and a dog bowl and some food?’ She didn’t even stop for a reply before adding, ‘We have everything you’ll need in our shop, including toys and treats!’
Charley turned to Angie, suddenly aghast at the mounting cost.
‘It’s too late to back out now,’ Angie told her, looking at the soulful brown eyes staring at them pleadingly. ‘One of us is going to have to take him, and it’s not going to be me.’
‘Lucky Bubbles,’ the woman added winningly, and beamed at them.
‘Bubbles?’ queried Angie flatly. Charley visibly winced, picturing herself having to call the ridiculous name out loud on the Downs.
‘Can I change his name?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t,’ replied the woman. ‘He has excellent recall and you’ll only confuse him.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Angie.
A few moments later, at the car, Angie strapped Lily into her booster chair in the back, and Charley settled Bubbles on her lap in the passenger seat. As they drove to her flat, the cockerpoo looked out of the window but every so often he would turn to lick Charley on the chin and she’d give his scruffy little body a hug.
‘Oh, you’re adorable!’ she told him. She turned to Angie. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘Cute, yes. Adorable? Possibly, but only time will tell,’ replied Angie sagely, thoroughly alarming Charley.
The first thing she did when Angie dropped them off was let the dog out into the garden. Leaning against the French doors she watched the cockerpoo snuffle excitedly around his new domain, his tail wagging furiously. His evident delight was infectious, and she couldn’t help smiling, but moments later her amusement rapidly disappeared when Bubbles starting frantically digging up the lawn.
‘No!’ wailed Charley. Turf and mud scuffed everywhere as the dog pounded away with his front paws. ‘No!’ she bawled, but the cockerpoo ignored her, intent on his work, so she went over and clapped her hands loudly at him. ‘No. Bad boy!’ she shouted. Startled, Bubbles abandoned his digging, then he shot her an impish look and darted in through the open French doors and leapt onto the sofa, where he sat pleased as punch and with a daft grin on his scruffy face, having trodden mud all over the fabric.
‘Oi! Off there, muddy paws!’ ordered Charley, racing in after him. Bubbles stayed where he was, flattened his ears and did his soulful eye routine.
‘I mean it! Off!’ She bellowed sternly and reluctantly the cockerpoo sloped onto the floor looking very hard done by and then promptly rolled onto his back to ask for a belly rub.
Charley sighed and obliged, despite despairingly beginning to wonder what she’d let herself in for. Angie’s dog didn’t behave like this, and of course Carlo was impeccably trained.
‘You are a right bloody handful!’ she informed him affectionately.
She stayed with the dog for an hour or so before settling him in the kitchen in his new basket, and putting a bowl of water down. Then she gave him a rubber chew to keep him occupied while she nipped back to the shop to help Pam close up for the day. ‘It’s only for an hour or so,’ she promised. She had planned to take him to the shop with her, but the rescue centre had advised her to let the dog get established into his new home before introducing him to too many new environments and people, so that had scuppered that notion.
‘Be a good boy. I’ll be home just after six.’ You do know he can’t tell the time? asked a withering voice in her head. She felt mean shutting him into the kitchen but she wasn’t going to take any chances with the carpet in the living room. Which was just as well, because when she got back, whilst there weren’t any puddles or other ‘accidents’ on the floor, the cockerpoo had taken all the cushions off the kitchen chairs and ripped them to shreds. Bite-sized chunks of polyfoam littered the entire floor. God only knew how much damage he would have done to the sofa. She stared at the damage askance, then slowly she turned her gaze on Bubbles, who sat in his basket, cheekily cocking his head at her and wagging his tail, clearly proud of his achievements. Cursing under her breath, she kicked him out into the garden while she swept the mess into a bin bag. Naturally, when she went to let him back in again, he was enthusiastically digging another hole in the lawn.
She rang Angie. ‘What the hell am I going to do? I can’t possibly take him into the shop if he’s going to be this destructive!’
‘Calm down! You’ve only just got him. There are bound to be a few teething troubles to begin with. Tell you what, why don’t I pop round with Buster every day for a bit? They can have a doggy play date and wear themselves out in the garden.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that!’
‘Yes you can. I have to walk Buster anyhow. And in the meantime, put everything chewable out of reach and then take him for a long, long walk. It’ll do you both good.’
Charley trudged round and round the streets for an hour and a half in an attempt to tire the dog out. On the lead, Bubbles trotted obediently by her side, perfectly at heel, every so often looking up at her as if to say, ‘Well, this is fun!’ They passed quite a few other dog walkers, many of whom, she noticed, were practically having their arms torn out of their sockets, their dogs were pulling so hard. ‘Good boy, Bubbles,’ she said loudly, trying very hard not to gloat. Getting back to the flat, she fed him, then herself, and then they both sat together on the sofa in a companionable silence while Charley read, holding the book in one hand and running the dog’s silky ears through her fingers with the other hand.
‘We can make this work, can’t we?’ In response, Bubbles waggled his eyebrows at her. Adorably.
The comforting, tactile pleasure instantly reminded her of petting Carlo, and from there her thoughts strayed to Ricky. She wondered how he was spending his evening, what he was doing now. Probably crashed out on the sofa with the huge lurcher curled up next to him, a mirror image of her and Bubbles.
‘You’d like Carlo,’ Charley told the cockerpoo, ‘He’s very…’ She hunted for the right words to describe the lurcher. ‘Cool, stylish and loveable.’ Then she realised she’d unintentionally summed up Ricky instead. ‘Oh well, they say dogs are like their owners,’ she told herself defensively. Which, now she came to think of it, made her a scruffy, badly behaved lunatic. At bedtime she put Bubbles in his basket and, wisely, shut the kitchen door. Ten minutes later she opened it again. She just couldn’t take the heart-rending howls coming from the kitchen and nor, she suspected, could her upstairs neighbours. She let him cuddle up to her on the bed.
‘If you snore, you’re going back to the dogs’ home.’